


Carving a Door

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Elf Culture & Customs, F/M, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Interracial Relationship, Mutual Pining, Romance, Silverslate, is now the Celebrimbor/Narvi ship name, possibly even awkward romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:52:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Khazad-dûm, in the Year 1325 of the Second Age of Middle-Earth.
     “Lord Durin. Trade with the Elves of Eregion would benefit us greatly. Their orchards are bountiful and their fields yield plenty.” Looking at Lord Brago, King Durin ignored the avarice in his councillor’s face and allowed himself to consider the proposal’s merit on its own terms, rather than what the Master of the Merchants’ Guild thought he could earn from it. “Very well,” he murmured, “we shall look into expanding our trade agreements with the Elves.”   Later, he would both curse and marvel at the results of his decision.





	1. Chapter 1

_Khazad-dûm, in the Year 1325 of the Second Age of Middle-Earth._

_“Lord Durin. Trade with the Elves of Eregion would benefit us greatly. Their orchards are bountiful and their fields yield plenty.” Looking at Lord Brago, King Durin ignored the avarice in his councillor’s face and allowed himself to consider the proposal’s merit on its own terms, rather than what the Master of the Merchants’ Guild thought he could earn from it._

_“Very well,” he murmured, “we shall look into expanding our trade agreements with the Elves.”_

_Later, he would both curse and marvel at the results of his decision._

 

* * *

 

 

“Lord Celebrimbor,” Durin calmly studied the Elf-Lord who lounged insouciantly in the chair across from his own. “I have received a proposal of interest to both our peoples.” Outlining Brago’s plan did not take long; aside from the question of creating adequate roadworks to and increasing the defences of the new access point of his realm, they had already had a formal trade agreement in place.

The Elf-Smith smiled gently, as though reminded of something amusing, before replying in a low tone.

“I accept your proposal, Durin _Aran Anfangrim_[1],” he said, “and together we will build a better future for both our people, I’m certain.”

 

* * *

 

 

“ **Kulhu mamahi ‘alanurt?**[2]” a familiar deep voice asked. Narví smiled, running her fingers over the granite block in front of her. Very few dared disturb her in the middle of a project.

“ **Akfini abnulazrâf, nadad**[3],” she teased, flashing her brother a cheeky smile over her shoulder. “Will you claim that it is an area in which you can assist me?” Raising her hammer and chisel once more, she turned back to her block of pink granite; the rarest type of granite and destined to become a statue of… well, she hadn’t quite decided which figure was hiding in the stone.

“No, nen’ar[4], I don’t think I will interfere with that,” Durin chuckled, not at all offended by her disparaging remark. “However, I do need to speak with you.” The serious tone of his voice made Narví put down her tools and turn around to face him again. It was not often that the King of Khazad-dûm disturbed her workshop with a visit, and she had to think for a moment to ensure that she had not missed some sort of official duty she should have attended. With a sigh, she wiped her hands on her apron and gave Durin her full attention. She frowned; her usually boisterous older brother had an uncommonly grave expression on his face.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, pulling him close to rest her forehead against his. Whatever it was, she would fix it, support him as she always did. Narví felt his agitation lessening.

“It’s a delicate matter, Narví,” Durin hesitated, but accepted her offer of comfort. Her golden hair, already escaping from her work braids, mingled with his darker strands at the edge of his vision as they simply breathed together for a minute.

“Tell me, nadad.” Her smile was wry but fond when she let go of Durin’s neck, but the King still seemed slightly apprehensive.

“The Merchants’ Guild have made a proposition,” he began, but Narví interrupted him with a chuckle.

“And what do those stuffy greybeards want this time to have you all twisted up?” she smiled, but her voice had an edge of old annoyance. Hands on her hips, she shot him a challenging look. “How many of them will I be facing in the rings?” Durin shook his head fondly, unsurprised that she would immediately jump to that response. The King couldn’t lay down official challenges except under extenuating circumstances, but Narví had no compunctions about fighting her brother’s literal battles for him, which was both sweet and a little intimidating. 

“The honourable Lord Brago wants to ease trade with the Elves of Eregion,” he explained. Narví did not feel mollified. “Their Lord, Celebrimbor, is amenable to an increase in trade between our two peoples, but Brago wants us to build a proper road down from the Mountains to Hollinn.”

“And what does this have to do with me? I am no roadworker, nadad,” Narví’s temper, always a flammable thing began to smoulder in her breast. Crossing her arms, she glared at the fidgeting King. Durin shuffled from foot to foot, but rallied himself.

“I know, zuhrahur[5],” he sighed, “but you are my best stonemason.” Narví didn’t preen at the praise – she knew she was the best – but her stance softened slightly. “The Great Road will need a Door,” Durin continued, knowing he had caught her attention when she shifted towards him. 

“You want me to build a true Door, nadad?” she asked, temper forgotten in her astonishment. Durin nodded.

“The Mountain must remain secure, but we need a way to get carts in and out easily.” Narví nodded thoughtfully. “I want you to build the grandest Door our kind has ever seen,” Durin said, and though Narví knew he was manipulating her, she couldn’t help but be intrigued by the project. “I want it to rival the wonders of our forebears.” Durin smiled softly, “Nana’[6], I want you to make a Door that will last until the Remaking.”

“I’ll need…” and with that, Durin could only smile and watch as the fires of Narví’s imagination were lit and her brilliant head applied itself to the project. Dwarf Doors, as they had had them in Belegost before it was ruined, were invisible when closed, and opened through clever magicks and words, but the skill to create them had been lost with Belegost, so Narví would need to relearn it. Durin did not doubt that she would do him proud, but he could not help but hide a smile when he watched her flit around her workshop, plans already spilling from her clever fingers.

“You will have a collaborator on this project, nana’,” he rumbled quietly, bemused despite himself when his words stopped her dead in her tracks.

“Collaborator?” Narví hissed, eyes flashing in anger, “You better not have promised Brago he could have any say in my creation!” she huffed, blowing a wayward curl out of her eyes and clenching her fists. “I _will not_ tolerate his greasy presence in my workspace.” She would have continued venting her vexation with Brago’s mere existence, but Durin held up a hand before her tirade truly got underway.

“No, nana’,” Durin sighed, and, for a second, the look on his face made Narví wonder if she might prefer the odious Lord Brago – who seemed quite convinced that his ‘charms’ would win him her affections – to the person he was about to suggest. A feeling of dread began to coil in the pit of her stomach; Durin seemed more nervous by the second, which was uncommon considering she had already _agreed_. “You will be working with the Elves’ Lord directly.” Durin added. Narví was stunned; collaboration with an _Elf_? Was he _seriously_ suggesting what she thought she was hearing?

“Have you lost your marbles, nadad?” she asked, staring at him. The King scowled back, but Narví did not relent her stance.

“Celebrimbor is their best smith,” Durin tried to placate her, but Narví was quite certain he was giving her the same spiel he had used to convince the Council of the virtue of his plan. She scoffed. “I want this Door to serve as a symbol of friendship between our two great races.” Durin finished, and Narví knew she couldn’t refuse him what he had asked; he was her brother, and she would do anything to help him, which the bastard very well knew. With a silent apology to her mother for the unkind thought she had not voiced, Narví opened her mouth.

“Let me get this straight: I am to be working with the smith-lord of Eregion – an _elf_ – to recreate an ancient wonder lost _because of Elves_?” she gaped, shaking her head. The idea of rediscovering their ancient method of making Doors was heady, but working with an _elf?_ Had Durin forgotten the destruction of Nogrod, the bloodbath in Doriath? No matter which side bore greater shame for it – Narví was not so blind as to believe her kindred blameless; Firebeards had always been a proud lot, and quick-tempered, too – she was certain that the Elves remembered it better than they did; some of their neighbours now might even have taken part in the atrocities _then_.

“Were you not the one who told me to make friends with their kind, **nuhrahur**?” he teased. Narví scowled. She _had_ been the one to suggest they build closer ties with their neighbours, but there was quite a distance between trading with the tall ones and _working_ with one.

“Do you even know if he will work with me? The Eldar rarely see our skills as worthy of their own,” she grimaced, but Durin put a placating hand on her shoulder.

“Peace, nana’. My smiths tell me this Elf is almost one of us in his pursuit of mastery of his Craft. I’m sure it will be fine.” Narví remained unconvinced, but she nodded slightly, letting him coax her temper down.

“We shall see,” she scowled, but punched his arm good-naturedly. “When do we begin?”

 

 

 

[1] Durin, King of the Longbeards

[2] What are we creating today?

[3] I am carving a statue

[4] Supreme sister

[5] Tiny sculpture – nickname.

[6] Sister


	2. First meetings

Narví felt uncomfortable, staring at their guests from her place by Durin’s throne, standing next to Ragnhild. On the other side of the throne, Amad stood with Rafn, leaning on her cane; all of them decked in their finest raiment, silent support as the Lord of Eregion entered the Hall that boasted so much of her work. Today, however, Narví did not feel comforted by the familiar sight of the stone around her, the hall brilliantly lit with crystal lamps forged by their sigin’adad. Today, she felt unaccountably nervous, though she tried not to let it show, wondering what the Lord of Elves would say to Durin’s plan. Narví felt a small object pressed into her palm, glancing beside her at the proud profile of her good-sister and gave her a questioning look. Ragnhild smiled softly, nodding almost imperceptibly towards Narví’s palm. Opening her fist, the stonemason saw a small piece of pink granite _– her soul-stone_ – engraved with runes. **‘Atsi ablâkhul’** it said, making her smile to herself. _You are strong._

“Lord Celebrimbor, may I introduce to you my mother, Dowager Queen Ljufa, and my sister, Princess Narví,” Durin said, interrupting Narví’s thoughts and making her nerves return twofold. This was vastly different from state visits from the other Clan-Lords, Narví thought, bowing politely. She looked resplendent, she knew, in her official Guild Master robes – edged in mithril and worn with a gown fine enough for the Princess of the Realm, of course; her hair and beard braided to perfection – though she did not look much like the hard worker she really was. Beside her, Ragnhild looked effortlessly pretty, her black hair and dark eyes shining in the light, her dark green and gold gown bringing out the warmth in her dark skin. “My wife, Princess-Consort Ragnhild,” Durin continued. Ragnhild curtseyed before Narví could stop her – they had tried to break her of that habit; she wasn’t an emissary anymore, she was the Princess-Consort of Durin, wife of the King of Khazad-dûm _and_ the mother of the _next King_ , but the Blacklock never had gotten used to her change in status. “And my son, Prince Rafn, with his wife, Princess Eyfura.” Rafn’s pure black hair stood out; the most obvious trait he shared with his Amad, as he and Eyfura acknowledged their guest.

“A pleasure to meet you,” the Elf said, his eyes glittering in the light. His dark hair was held back by a mithril circlet, falling straight down his back as he bowed to them. None of them spoke; it was for amad to decide how this guest was treated, deference due her status as the matriarch of their House; Durin might be King, but Ljufa was still the Dowager Queen and would remain so until she joined Domarr in the Halls.

“My son has spoken much of you, Lord Khalebrimbur,” Ljufa said quietly, and Narví envied her steady dignity; Amad had never been the type to be ruffled, her mithril hair never caught misbehaving and leaving its neat braids like Narví’s wilful curls tended to do. With effort, Narví managed not to huff at the small curl that had sprung free from its hold – _how? Amad had used her tightest braiding, how did Narví’s curls always escape?_ – wondering if they would mind her running away to her workshop but knowing that her pride and sense of duty wouldn’t let her feet flee like they wanted to at that very moment when Lord Celebrimbor’s eyes caught hers, a smile hiding in the toffee-coloured depths that seemed to shine at her somehow, much like his luminous skin – Durin had told her that the Elf almost _shone_ , but Narví had not believed he meant it _literally_.

“Good things, I should hope,” Celebrimbor replied. Narví tried not to smile back at him, involuntarily amused. Durin had said many things about this Elf, in particular, and though most of them were good, none of her small family would simply take his word for it; everyone would be looking at this meeting to form their own opinion of their seldom-seen neighbour. They might trade with the Elves – had done so since before Adad died – but they did not mingle much; Narví had never met this Khalebrimbur, and she knew Durin had only met him thrice since he took the throne more than a century earlier.

“It has been said that you are a Master of the Forge,” Ljufa replied, “I am sure your skills will be of great service in the time to come.” The Elf bowed again, accepting the compliment, his piercing eyes leaving Narví at last. She mastered the impulse to shiver.

“I am eager to get started, Queen Ljufa,” he replied, and Narví had to agree that he looked it. Narví felt relieved. So far, this Lord of Eregion hadn’t seemed as disdainful as she had expected from someone of his kin. Turning back to Durin, the Elf continued, “I was told to expect the Master of your guild of stoneworkers to join me? Where is he?” he asked. Narví felt more than heard Durin’s chuckle, the low sound of amusement copied by those standing behind her.

“Here, Lord Khalebrimbur,” Narví replied, taking a step forwards, moving into her place at Durin’s side when Ragnhild shifted away. “Narví Domarrul, Master of the Brotherhood of Stone, Princess of Khazad-dûm… at your service.” Bowing her head – he was a Lord, yes, but he was also a foreign visitor to _her_ realm; Narví was well aware of the exact degree of respect she should show him.

“Forgive me,” Celebrimbor said, and the genuine contrition in his face mollified her simmering temper slightly, “I had not realised that the _Princess_ Narví was also the Master of Columns.” Gesturing to the hall around them – arguably one of her best works – he added seriously, “Are you equally skilled with all manner of stone?” For a moment, Narví bristled, but the feeling of Durin’s hand on her arm stilled her angry tongue; it didn’t stop her from sending him a scathing glare.

“My sister is the most skilled of masons in my realm,” Durin said, squeezing her arm. Narví glared at him out of the corner of her eye, but Durin did not let go, his touch a silent warning. The elf looked like he had only just realised the insult inherent in his words, but Narví spoke before he could offer an apology – not quite sure he _would_.

“I am indeed, Lord Elf,” she replied, making an effort to keep her voice pleasantly polite. The Elf Lord laughed, his eyes sparkling as he held out his hand in offer. Narví warily stretched her arm towards him, managing not to gasp when he took her hand, bowing low to press his mouth against her scarred knuckles. _Was the Elf sick?_ His skin was so warm compared to hers, it almost felt feverish. The calluses on his fingers spoke of hands used to tools, but they were still far softer than any smith she had ever met.

“ _Ánye avatyarë_[1], Master Narví,” Celebrimbor said softly, rising from his bow but keeping hold of her hand, his golden-brown eyes never leaving her aquamarine blue ones. Narví felt trapped by that gaze – the Elf looked young, but those eyes… they had seen things, she was suddenly sure, things she would not wish to have seen. “Do you wish to set up a workshop here or will we collaborate in my home?” Only a slight stiffening of her muscles gave away her agitation, Narví knew, as she stammered out her desire to use her own workshop for prototype carving, though she would like to see the forge he had built; assess whether she could work in the home of an Elf.

“It is agreed, then, Narví will accompany you to Eregion until you have finished the preliminary design-phase of the project,” Durin decided behind her. The Elf-Lord smiled and finally let go of her hand. Narví drew it back swiftly.

 

 

[1] Forgive me (Quenya)


	3. Eregion

Eregion was a funny place, Narví thought, filled with wooden arches and birdsong instead of the ringing of hammers and the deep tones of Khuzdul mining songs. The Elves mostly ignored her presence it seemed – not because they were impolite, and a few were even helpful – but because it simply didn’t seem to register that there was a Dwarf walking around the place. Celebrimbor’s house – he had built it himself, he told her, with obvious pride; she had refrained from explaining to him why the north corner foundations would be sagging within fifteen years – was a sprawling construction that seemed to draw on several styles of construction in an eclectic mash-up that somehow created a functional design. She thought she saw some details that looked almost Dwarven here and there, but he had not pointed them out when he gave her a tour on the first day, and she had not asked, still feeling a little insecure for having left the Mountain. It wasn’t the first time she had done so, though she usually did not travel alone; for official visits there was always a bevy of followers; servants, other dignitaries, guards. Amad did not like leaving her home, so, before Durin had married, many official duties that rightfully belonged in the queen’s purview had fallen to Narví.

 

Their work went quickly, when they could actually agree on things. That, however, did not seem to occur more than once a week at first, and so the project kept crawling slowly towards completion. Narví was frustrated. Not only with the Elf, whom she would swear disagreed with her half the time only to see her riled up and spitting with anger. She could deal with that; it wasn’t the first time she had worked with someone like him, and yet this was different from all the other collaborations she had been involved in; this work – _this Elf_ – was different.

The Elf.

The Elf was a problem.

He wasn’t a bad person, she had decided, though he seemed oddly naïve at times, quick to offer apology for any perceived affront.

The problem, if she was honest with herself, came from how… _not-uncomfortable_ she felt in his presence; confusing herself with their friendly banter and easy camaraderie. She had expected to long for home, and though she did feel a pull towards her own workshop, she felt far less homesick than she had done on trips to the other clans. Of course, she could still _see_ her home in the distance, knew exactly how to escape Ost-in-Edhil if needed, how to make her way home, back to the sheltering bosom of her kin. _But she didn’t want to_ , and that unsettled her. Tossing in her bed at night – _she had resolved to make properly darkening shutters after the first night; who knew the moon could be that bright_ – provided no answers, and only made her cranky the next day.

 

Khalebrimbur had obviously realised her crabby mood, Narví thought, decisively telling herself that she did not miss the witty banter he usually threw at her. Staring at her preliminary drawings, she blinked slowly, feeling pleasantly full from dinner – roast venison – and barely listened when the elf began chatting about some feast or other they’d be having next week; a celebration of the Equinox.

 

 

“Did you sleep well?” the soft words broke through her comfortable slumber. Narví jerked awake, flinching away from the surprisingly compact muscles of the arm she had been leaning against. The firmness of his bicep should not have been so surprising, she thought waspishly, Khalebrimbur was a smith after all! She could feel her cheeks burning, grateful that her beard covered most of the red skin.

“What?” she asked, pretending she hadn’t been snuggling into his warm arm and praying to the Maker that she had not drooled all over him or something equally disastrous. Sneaking a look, his blue tunic – _did he know those were the colours of her Line?_ – was perfectly dry, if slightly creased; she realised she had been clutching at his forearm, wrinkling the loose sleeve in her sleep.

“Perhaps you ought to get more rest,” he chided softly. “You fell asleep about an hour ago.” Narví was certain her face was on fire. “Is your bed here uncomfortable?”

“Err…” she paused, uncomfortable with the scrutiny of his toffee eyes. Instead of meeting his piercing gaze, her eyes followed a strand of his dark hair where it wound is way down past his pointed ear and over his strong shoulder. “No. It’s fine.” The smile he gave her was soft as he pushed his way up from the table.

“Well, I shall escort you to bed then, Lady Narví,” he said, his eyes crinkling in another smile. Narví wondered how her name could sound so different in his accent compared to some of the other Elves around, but it was hardly the time for asking. “We have done much work of late,” Khalebrimbur added, oblivious to her train of thought, “and I have been remiss in not ensuring you have adequate time to rest. Forgive me, my lady, I am not used to living so closely with a mortal.” From anyone else, Narví would have considered the words a rebuke – as though her mortality was a _choice_ – but Khalebrimbur’s honest face seemed genuinely concerned for her, disarming her temper before it could flare. He bowed, offering her his arm. Narví sighed; it was slightly awkward, with their differences in height, but she put her hand on his anyway, letting him steer her out of his workshop and through the gently winding corridors of the elven home. When they reached the door of the room she had been given, he left her with another polite bow. Narví stood there, gazing after him for quite a while before she managed to rouse herself enough to open the door and find her bed.

 

After that night, Narví noticed that some sort of physical barrier had dissolved. Khalebrimbur no longer went out of his way not to touch her, instead moving economically through their shared space and occasionally brushing against her with an arm or a hand. At first, it was odd, but she couldn’t claim that she minded; the Elf was proving to be surprisingly good company, and she had even managed to begin a tentative acquaintance with a few of the other Elves in the house. Khalebrimbur did not live alone, even though he was unmarried, sharing his home with the widow of the elf who had died to protect him in a war he didn’t want to talk about. Their son – who answered to the unwieldy name of Nurtalëon – was a pleasant companion, Narví found; often willing to show her around or make his mother tell stories of an evening; even when Khalebrimbur did not feel like talking, which happened every now and again. The first time he had spent a whole evening answering in monosyllables and staring at the flickering flames, Narví had worried, but Loremistress Nyarmë kept her from dwelling on her brooding host until it was time to sleep. Since the night Narví had fallen asleep on him – and it was odd that Khalebrimbur had never mocked her for that, really – he had been solicitous to the point of annoying about ensuring that she had adequate rest.

In truth, Narví loved her life among Elves, finding more enjoyment in ‘her’ Elf’s company than she had thought she would. Khalebrimbur was _good_ at what he did, even if he frustrated her no end about minor details; working with him was no trouble, and they often sparked new ideas in each other simply by coming from two so different ways of thinking about the material and the problem. They were both perfectionists, she knew, and butting heads was inevitable during any project. On some days, she would call them the best of friends, but on other days he was the perfect tool for driving her up any and all walls he could find. Working with him was unlike anything she had done before, even for projects where she had worked with equally exacting smiths of her own kind. She gave as good as she got, of course – never let it be said that a Child of Mahal would be bested by some _Elf_ when it came to arguing or stubbornness – but sometimes she would catch him staring at her, a peculiar expression on his face as if he was thinking about a complicated puzzle. Those looks unnerved her, making her feel like he was trying to see into her soul, wonder at the fondness growing there; unexpected, but Narví knew it to be a true friendship.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts on this!


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